Family photographs strewn carelessly underfoot,

while needlessly complicated music plays through

floorboards. “He loves the wrist breaking chords

the best,” you say, stepping on a photo of aunt Nancy

wearing her Sunday best (which was never good enough),


always in floral patterns and high waist, belted dresses,

shoulder pads making her athlete strong, Trapped

in nineteen eighty six, gigantic glasses and purple

eye shadow, like bruises, like sunset stripped dreams.


I am low on drink, a clanking of ice cubes and I swallow

the rest, rinsing out what remains of an unexpected

kiss, tongue-tipped and tormenting. I want more.

Instead, you give me watered down words –

Fear and Regret-Even if your pupils tell a different story-


dilated, sucking in light, emptying, darkening down

the room-“Sometimes, he plays all afternoon. Songs

I don’t know, with intoxicating precision,” flopping

to the floor, marker in hand, crossing out the eyes


from pictures, “he calls me Debbie when he sees me.

I hate it,” and you will write it all down on scraps

of over-used paper, misunderstood as usual, which

is not your fault, while I pick skin near damaged

cuticles with my teeth, bitten-too-short nails an afterthought,


like after shave lotion, like dry toasted afternoons.

They all bleed in bright red trickles to the floor,

where you sit among the fabricated memories.

Moving your lips as you count them off one after another.

About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

One response to “Purging”

  1. Katherine Of It All says :

    Fantastic imagery you build in this one. It’s interesting trying to tease out what’s really going on with each added detail.

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